Right Kind of Wrong(37)

“You wait here,” I say to Jenna as I get out of the car. “I’ll be right back.”

“Uh-uh.” She opens her door and climbs out as well. “I need to pee.”

I look at her, trying to conceal my panic. “Can’t you hold it until we get Samson back to my place?”

She arches a sassy brow. “Hold it? No, Dad. I’ve been holding it for three hundred miles.”

“You don’t want to use the bathroom in this place. Trust me.”

She scrunches her face in confusion and annoyance. “What’s your deal right now? Let a girl pee, okay?” She starts marching for the front doors.

In three quick strides I’m beside her and talking in a hushed tone so my words come across less scolding than I mean them to be. “If you go in here with me, I need you to stay by my side. Do you understand?”

She snorts. “In the bathroom? Yeah, I don’t think so.”

“I’m being serious.” I pull her arm and she spins to face me. But her look of irritation quickly dissolves into bafflement when she sees my expression. “This isn’t a bar like the Thirsty Coyote. Hell, this isn’t really a public bar at all. And you…” I glance her over and hot possessiveness courses through my veins. “You are going to draw attention.”

She’s wearing a tight black tank top, which molds to her chest in an all-too-delicious way, with a pair of tiny red shorts that show off her long, flawless legs. Rings cover her fingers and climb up her ears, while a diamond stud marks the side of her nose and the arch of her eyebrow. Her long lashes are thick and dark, sweeping over amber eyes filled with spirit. And tattoos wind over her shoulders, down her arms, and peek beneath the hem of her shorts, curving around her left thigh with the bottom half of a mermaid’s tail.

My eyes trail up and over every inch of her and I swallow. “I need you to stay right by me when we go inside.” I lower my voice. “Please.”

She shifts her jaw back and forth, like she’s not sure what to think, but finally shakes her head. “Fine. Whatever. But so help me Jesus, if you try to follow me into the bathroom stall I will yank off your balls and flush them. Understood?”

I narrow my eyes and move forward for the door. “Murder. Castration. You’re a violent little thing, you know that?” My tone is relaxed but I’m anything but as we near the door.

Not just because I know what waits for us inside, or because I hate who I’m about to turn back into, but because there is a very good chance that I might have to follow Jenna into the bathroom stall to keep her safe. And I really don’t feel like guarding my balls.





11


Jenna


So… Jack’s being weird.

I get it. This isn’t a girly bar and he doesn’t want guys to mess with me and blah blah blah, but come on. Stay by my side? I’m an adult with an overstuffed bladder, not a toddler wandering around Disneyland.

He opens the door to the bar, but unlike usual, he doesn’t hold it open for me. Instead, he steps inside and pulls me in behind him, keeping me hidden behind his massive shoulders as the door closes at my back.

Okay, not cool.

I start to move around him, curse words ready to leap from my tongue, but stop in my tracks when I realize the loud chatter inside the bar has significantly quieted. Peeking out from behind the big shoulder in front of me, I watch people, one by one, turn their heads to the door and park their eyes on Jack.

An odd tension fills the air, almost dangerous and definitely careful, but curious as well as more of the crowd turns our way.

These are Jack’s people, apparently, and they all look… hard. Like, motorcycle-gang hard. Even the women look like they could slice my head off with a single swipe of their excessively long, acrylic fingernails. I look at Jack and frown.

His playful smile is gone, replaced by a hard scowl, and his chest is puffed out more than usual. I’m suddenly not as desperate to pee anymore. I can hold it for another few minutes. Hell, I can hold it for another few hours, if need be.

And need might very well be.

A hefty man, who I assume is the bartender, stands behind the bar with his dark eyes trained on Jack in a confrontational way. He looks to be in his fifties, with leathery skin and fat knuckles, and his shoulder-length gray hair is pulled back into a neat knot, matching the gray handlebar mustache curving out beneath his nose.

One second passes. Then two. Three.

“So the prodigal son has returned,” the hefty bartender says, and the quieting chatter fades even more as ears perk up in every corner.

“I hate to disappoint,” Jack says in a rough voice I’ve never heard him use before, “but I’m only here for Samson.”